Best Dolts Poems
* Collaboration of Limericks written by Jan Allison,
Tom Cunningham, Tania Kitchin and Lin Lane
Here's a news flash, the latest scoop
There are parasites in the soup
AI bottom feeders
Poet superceders
Those who cannot write worth a poop
Artificial intelligence is smart
But never uses words found in the heart
Some dolts use it to cheat
Thinking they are discreet
We should hit them in their butts with a dart
They say AI is here to stay
But plagiarism is another way
Some may copy/paste Poe
Or other greats you know
Add their name, it's sorted way hey!
We know you're fake and using AI
Your poems are nothing but a lie
Wanting to be cool
but instead, a fool
Now you can just leave our site, goodbye!
Some poets get Poem of the Day
It's AI, (of course they don't say)
AI contest "winners"
Are poetry sinners
Does admin prevent them - no way!
Real poets write using only their hand
AI users need more'n a reprimand
Deleting their accounts
'fore their winning surmounts
There should be a way they could all be banned
Stay put, no need to get out of bed
Or have a thought in your empty head
So, just ask Alexa
And she'll write it for ya
A shame you can't use your brain instead
What is your real poetry name?
As fake poems seem to be your game
All Plagiarism and AI
We're really not sure why
Your page is pathetically lame
Pestilence borne in the form of AI
Not of Biblical proportion but why
do you have need to chouse
Poets' concern and rouse
the community to feel so awry
On the day AI begins its world rule
People will still call each other a fool
Is the human race then doomed
AI will have us all groomed
To serve them as lowly slaves, a footstool
I asked a generator to write a Limerick, its response was...
An AI that wrote with great flair,
Could craft limericks beyond compare.
With rhythm and rhyme,
In a jiffy, each time,
It brought smiles to faces everywhere!
This was my response
No! au contraire, AI generator
Not everyone smiles at your creator
I will admit you're quick
but it's deceptive schtick
You're a bad poet's ego inflator
He Loves Her? He Loves Her Not? – An Echo Poem
By Darren White and Brian Johnston
Darren White’s Original Poem – WHAT LOVE LOOKS LIKE
PoetrySoup.com - Reprinted with permission
“If anyone asks you
how the perfect satisfaction
of all our sexual wanting
will look, lift your face
and say,
Like this.”
- Rumi
***
Darren:
I lift my face to you, my anyone
my only one, my love,
And see your question
unspoken but screamed
all over you
This is what love looks like
What it looks like with
only that one person
I see you read you
every line of you
words without any
meaning full of meaning
I read you I see your face
I taste the sun and the moon
and all the stars in all the
fireworks.
Darren White
***
Brian Johnston’s Echo - I Do Not Doubt That Love Is Real
PoetrySoup.com and PoemHunter.com
I do not doubt that love is real,
Just shy to offer up myself
As shining gem that you might steal
Or place in glass case on a shelf,
Holding to the selfish view
That somehow I am just for you.
I know I cannot love like that
There is not ONE that I desire
My temperament is more like cat,
But, looking still, I don’t conspire
To say that I cannot be yours…
Just “Love” is not that which secures.
I doubt that Rumi showed his face,
To only one and kept this vow,
For “sexual wanting” has no place,
No love it may not disavow
“Like this” is just a moment’s urge
And untoward thoughts may quickly purge.
In love though lives a higher plane,
Where jealousy is just fool’s gold
And even dolts like me can gain
By seeing it is just blindfold!
Integrity’s your only friend,
It might just save you in the end.
For sun and moon and stars all fade,
Like vows that promise you’re the one,
Like promises made in the shade,
The truth will out though your heart’s won,
So chose a mate beloved by folk,
Don’t let your future be a joke.
***
Brian Johnston
April 9, 2017
Silver slippers sliding off her feet, sparkling heels,
Suspended beat of the air, the feel of surrender
to the pumpkin skies, the rise of parting souls.
Bare feet, barely touching the stairs; the tip toes
of spiraling rails. Her midnight blue gown swooshing,
swaying, twirling. The moon glittering like her tiara.
Poof, like magic, she’s disappeared, as his hands
fondle one of the shapely shoes; perfect though
they’d been used in romantic tango half the night.
The cool night air still holds her lips, her breath,
the essence of her charm, her slippers. He dare not
turn back the clock - hears its melody chiming.
Her timing was impeccable, almost laughable, as
the princess-dolts had already stepped on his toes,
their knees creaked, and all were wildly anxious.
But she showed up at the top of the stairs,
suspended time, then descended the winding
way, all along lifting his eyes, biding her time.
The only son, ready to take the throne -
his palms were wet, his knees trembled,
love at first sight, before she even spoke.
She didn’t disappoint. She could sing and dance.
Where did she come from? He’s too entranced
to ask, but as courage comes the clock strikes.
and she runs
away like a ghost…
Their mangled and broken bodies
return home in flag draped caskets.
Dulce et decorum est pro patria mori
while a band plays patriotic
hymns for their services rendered
and a choir to give them a voice.
If I may be so bold to say
that I see no sweetness in death
nor the acclaimed gloriousness
that lyrical poets have penned.
what I see is sugarcoated
rationale for warmongering
dolts. I see no glory in that.
Mortem est pretium bellum.
Mother rams with baby lambs
for greener grass are hunting.
Mama cows spy mama sows
with piglets softly grunting.
Creature ma’ams are joined by dams
whose baby colts start snorting!
Calves and colts and pigs like dolts
in meadows are cavorting.
March 10, 2021
for Eve Roper's Nursery Rhyme Poetry Contest
(I learned a new word doing this, which kids might enjoy learning:
dams are female horses!)
From Wikipedia:
The word (dam) can also be used for other female equine animals, particularly mules and zebras . . . A horse's female parent is known as its dam. An uncastrated adult male horse is called a stallion and a castrated male is a gelding.
I am woman …
WOMAN
Of Congo,
Chewed,
Spat out,
And bestowed with straw basket
To fetch water.
You set upon us
Wild dogs,
Stretching our legs wide,
Ripping out our genitals and dignity
To nurse your children’s
Craving.
‘fore you design gods;
Ones who create dolts,
Small-minded folks,
And feast on minerals –
Congo was a lady
And I … I am
WOMAN,
Strong black woman.
I bought some views
On black market;
They are rare commodities,
Sat down with glass of nsamba
on the rocks
And seriously contemplate …
It is hard to buy
Black market stuff;
We are set up
To think
East is inferior to west,
Barring them Europeans
Who broke their necks
To dwell in Canaan.
One thing is for sure,
They alleged a better name
And substitute
The ones we were given;
Those with implications.
Oh, what things we see
When we start looking
From our own eyes.
I am WOMAN …
Woman alone
And taken against my desire,
Ravished by the corporations;
The gods who create your children
I am WOMAN,
Woman from Congo.
Building a House on Sand
By Elton Camp
Alabama has some frontage on the Gulf Coast
Where the risk of storm damage is the most
People with money will build right on the beach
Instead of where a hurricane isn’t likely to reach
Then for all of us, house insurance rates will rise
Because they have acted so foolishly unwise
We live way up north, a long way from the shore
But due to those dolts we are forced to pay more
I’d also enjoy having a beach and ocean front view
But don’t as it’s a totally irresponsible thing to do
On such construction there should be a total ban
Or else let insurance rates there rise as they can
Now, when a hurricane comes and blows them away
At our expense rebuild so it can happen another day
Life insurance to a skydiver might rightly be denied
To some houses, that same principle should be applied
Maybe for existing construction exception can be made
But building new houses on the sand should be forbade
A beach dweller reading this may scream and curse
I don’t care as I’m tired of your reaching into our purse
I cannot, will not, do not suffer fools gladly
especially those dolts that are not capable of recognising or realising
the plummeting depths of their own unfathomable foolishness!
It is believed that charity should begin at home, or so they say,
But, damn, when your every nerve is stretched – elasticated, broken – fragmented;
how?
How can I?
The level of superficiality camouflaged as sincerity astounds, bemuses and, yet,
I am not surprised that there are those that are drawn to them as moths to a flame;
the utter blindness confuses me –
an internal eruption, a soul quake…
I refuse to conform to their archetype – their need for acceptance
does not justify painting veneers that crumble and diminish, deteriorate and fade;
my true self independent and dignified –
an explosion of colour, a kaleidoscope of possibilities…
I believe there is not only charity in our home but love too,
Where all are accepted – embraced, whether broken or not;
how?
Because we can!
I can, will, do take delight in real people gladly,
especially those splendiferous spirits capable of recognising, realising
the insurmountable depths of their own unfathomable foolishness!
Copyright Deon J.H. Burger 2017
Michael Latido has quite a history.
He is considered a medical mystery.
The razor blades, nuts and bolts.
Eaten by him and other dolts.
Are nothing, compared to namely,
His eating a grocer cart, bicycle
and claim to fame, doing away inanely...
With a complete Cessna airplane
© Apr 09 2010
Now I am sitting alone in this
Funny wagon with my boom box
and minding my own business
along with a bunch of numskulls
who thinks I am a nutcase like them—
What a drag! And they think we are
all going to a Funny Farm where
they take those who go bananas!
But I know better because
I am good and dandy--
One hell of a cockscomb dude!
All I am doing is
bamboozling them for now,
Behaving as if I am one of them—
These dolts, dim-witted blockheads!
But, YOU, who’s reading this,
can vouch for me, won’t ya?
Why? Because you are as cool as I am,
It takes one to know one!
You catching my drift, ain’t ya?
~07/16/15
~"Colloquialism" contest by Laura Leiser
Sinister were the clouds that emptied their kettles
I lowered my umbrella and gave a defiant stare
Raindrops stung my face like needle sharp nettles
Daringly, I squared my shoulders, letting anger flare
Lightning flashed in jagged shards, trying to scare me
Thunder bellowed loudly; his blatant echoes roared
I stood my ground, straight and tall as a Sequoia tree
bracing myself against the wind as the deluge poured
Behind an opaque black veil, stars remained hidden
shrouded as they were on another foul-weather night
Memories claimed me as they hastened, unbidden
to sear my broken heart again. I felt the flames ignite
Thunder no longer rumbled. No more lightning bolts
I wanted to believe that I'd tamed the vicious storm
but ferocious winds howled, "Humans are such dolts!"
Nature let me know that it was I who had to conform
I trudged on with an attitude of contemptuous disdain
Bitter at the blustery weather, howling like a banshee
I faced the night head-on, fighting the torrent of pain
Once again, I broke free in a courageous act of apogee
January 1, 2022 ~
About Twenty Two Score Years Ago...
One “FAKE” rumor purports April Fools’ Day
accepted with hostile abandonment
according to Giggle ling search result
conducted by this gent
adopted when France switched
rather than fight abolishment
transitioning from Julian calendar
to Gregorian calendar,
(yet maintaining same gender reassignment)
called for by the Council of Trent
Lot affecting chronological abridgement
forthrightly, immediately, and
magically decreeing making
with flourish of inkhorn - prestidigitation
"poof" quite few months absent
necessitating rejiggering
displaced vanished days forcing
latter time keeping paradigm absorbent,
asper sands of time no matter such
figurative tectonic shift population
aghast at August accomplishment
and probably did March in protest,
cuz entire season,
sans couture accouterment
suddenly rendered obsolete and unfashionable
manually crafted, swiftly tailored, and
harry styled clothes no mean achievement,
and uninformed folks got hashtagged
kindled, and named plenti admonishment
visited on their person such as
bumsteads, dolts, fools, et cetera
howling guffaws when derriere adornment
slapped with "kick me steady bum,"
or stuck with tail like appurtenances
eventually this "FAKE" – advancement
ha ha April fools historical joke
became embedded tradition inn advertent
lee established meshugas, where Jews
and especially gentiles went meshugoyim
generating cottage (cheesy) gum mint industry,
and brisk business for nascent advertisement
industry, (albeit handily horse drawn
attention grabbing kiln fired tablets)
mainly for (Philly buzzfeed string) affluent,
who secured lifelong gentlemen's agreement
with artisan, and of apprenticed trumpeting sons
(after tithe thing allotment) earnings
portion squirrelled away for rainy
May Day festivities ambient
brouhaha babushka's celebrating divine comedy
21st century poet tindered mild amusement
regarding this "FAKE" flight of fancy!
If there's frost on your noodle, don't despair
It's a sign of genius if you've got grey hair
But the experts say when the colour takes flight
Intelligence doesn't just happen overnight
It takes years and years of bumps and grinds
So make sure you don't get left behind
To survive in this crazy and wacky old world
Ya gotta be ready for whatever gets hurled
Grey hair says intelligence between the ears
Achieving great wisdom throughout the years
A scholarly person you've turned out to be
Now if only your kiddies could also see
That parents are not just a couple of dolts
May even be smarter than a lot of young colts
Who may know computers and all that stuff
That's not all there is, it's not quite enough
To be able to deal with the challenges of life
One needs the smarts to deal with strife
For everyday problems that are bound to arise
Facing head on life's every surprise
Don't be embarrassed by frost on you noodle
You've got the whole kit and caboodle
Acquiring great knowledge throughout the years
With loads of laughter and many tears
© Jack Ellison 2014
There’s a monkey tag-team of mo-rons
running things ~ Polly Would Pinocchio style
Dumb and Dumber dolts
got dim a dullard king Dumbo
dunce chair directing
Elephant Man, with the carrot top sage
He’s a veggie dense thinker,
whose airhead leading the buffoon brigade
And it’s a head scratcher
as to why dim low IQ, cowardly lions
are lemming following the fiefdom folly
It’s so chicken-hearted laughable ...
henpecks lip farting,
putting on a helium gas of a show
Cue the fake laughter soundtrack:
It’s American Idle time!
Snooze prime to hear the rally monkey
carnival noise once more
You can bet your two Pence,
this clueless circus is gonna campaign roll
back into Mo’ scowl town
P.T. “Blarney Ruble” Barnum
and his chimpanzee crew of incompetent clowns
are again orangutan offering
their court jester brand of witless protection
Midas minus the safety!
Only “no-money-back” global security guarantee
Dim Supremely silly Windy Poot tiggers ...
so growl inept at stashing hidden tax figures,
are stumbling out of the Keystone Cop clown car
at an imbecilic, cage open pace —
Arrested development cut-rate
Dim piglet pasties with the parrot face, and the carat taste,
are warble wobbling about in bungling, Bozo haste
Following the folly of the stupid arms race
Pinhead ponies love the idiotic art of the coin chase
As the ringleader Mo-Ron McDonald the Clown
tells his simpleton clucks, at the Ivory barn Animal House Farm,
there’s no nuke need to be smartly alarmed
I’ve gone through some boring times,
they’re inevitable in life,
luckily, I can truly say,
that I’ve never faced real strife.
In fact the only moment
I ever felt great despair,
was as a teen in high school,
when force to read Jane Eyre.
Good lord was the book boring,
so self-important and dull,
even worse with feminist teachers
pounding it into your skull.
I couldn’t even finish it,
and I very poorly fared,
an A-student who loved to write,
bored senseless by Jane Eyre.
The other boys did little better,
and it became a running joke,
how it could be used as torture,
more cruel than any blow.
Young men need something heroic,
where good guys go on a tear,
full of vigor, they’ll never stop
for the musings of Jane Eyre.
And now, all these years later,
it seems blocked from my brain,
wasn’t there a Lowburn school,
or something like that name?
I remember there was Rochester,
and his crazy wife upstairs,
but honestly that’s all I recall
of that blasted book Jane Eyre.
Some people proclaim it a classic,
and that folks like me are dolts,
but if that is what a classic is
then please leave me with my pulps!
Perhaps most of these classics
should go and grow a pair,
because I’ve never been more bored
then when I tried to read Jane Eyre.
…Of course, I’m an adult now. Maybe I’ll see something I didn’t before. I should try…zzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzz….